Monday, April 30, 2007

I have been reading the The Road by Cormac McCarthy, which is the most recent Oprah’s Book Club selection. To prevent anyone from saying anything negative about Oprah Winfrey, let me remind you that she is a legend. Lots of people hate on her, which I guess is par for the course when you’re a black woman with over a billion dollars. I don’t understand the real animosity and mockery out there of her book club. Many people say, “A bunch of housewives are only reading those books because Oprah told them to!” Well if a huge number of people are suddenly reading things like Steinbeck and Breath, Eyes, Memory on Oprah’s advise, who cares?

Spoilers Ahead

The Road is a look at a terrible future in which the world is covered in ash and the only human beings who remain are either cannibals or those running from them. It is the story of a father and son who are trying to make their way south to a warmer place because another winter is likely to kill them if the bloodcults don’t get them first. Their desperate searches for canned goods to eat and places to hide are thrilling and terrifying. In this world we want to believe that there are only a few who have survived, but we are reminded again and again that there are enough left to never feel like you’ve escaped the danger of desperate, immoral people who have come to realize that they nothing matters anymore except having something to eat. For the father, however, the only thing that matters is that his child remains as safe as possible and that his survival continues to aid that of the boy.

At one point in the novel, the pair comes across an old man making his way down the road as well. They had just come across a big supply of food that they are pushing along in their shopping cart. The father would just pass the man by, as he would anyone so as not to endanger themselves or get caught up in helping another in a time when one can only do so much for oneself, and the helping of another is a risk that can get both the helper and the helped killed, or worse. The boy however, is still burdened with compassion for strangers. He implores his father to share some of their food with the old man, which he gives in to, and they sit the night by a fire with the old man, to whom the father says, “You should thank him—I wouldn’t have given you anything”—and the seemingly ungrateful old man refuses and acknowledges that he wouldn’t have done the same for the boy, either.

The old man is a compelling character in a novel where we get to know little about anyone but two of the last few “good guys” (what the father has explained to his child that they are), the father and son. The old man lies about his name and his age, and when called on his lies he states that those lies are protective measures of some sort. He also shares that he was always a roamer, and he always knew “it” – the unexplained catastrophe that turned the world into the burned, ashy wasteland – was coming. At this moment in the novel I gave pause, because I, like many people, have always felt like “it” is coming and the imagining of McCarthy’s novel has made me think again about how long I could last if I were a survivor at all.

Interesting things I wondered about as I read the novel:

1. The boy was born shortly after “it” happened, so he has grown up knowing only it. However his desire to help others is strong. Where would he have learned this? His father is unwilling to help anyone, and with pretty good reason not to. Additionally, the boy knows a lot of language, and how to read. He also desires to have the company of other children and he knows what certain extinct animals are as well as vehicles (he makes truck-noises as he plays with his toy truck). Where did the boy learn all of this in a world were little exists as reference? Was the catastrophe mild enough at the start to allow him time to grow up and gain some reference, and became increasingly worse, destroying more and leading to the development of the bloodcults?

2. Besides reaching a warmer climate, why are they moving south? The man knows he doesn’t know what they will find there. Is it just a direction to run, with the benefit of added warmth? If it’s warmer and more habitable, won’t there be more competition there and more cannibals? And won’t they just have to keep running anyway?

3. Why aren’t there more “good guys”? Have they been overpowered by the bloodcults? How are there so many truly emotionless cannibals who have emerged in this aftermath of the catastrophe? Has being the “bad guys” allowed for them to outlive the population of “good guys”?

End Spoilers

Yes, this story is not new – everything from The Stand to Mad Max has addressed the issue of the postapocolyptic age of terror and desperation. But McCormac’s take is original and inspiring. While it is wearing thin in the scattered populace as well, the last human trait that remains in the scorched earth is the will to live. I am a slow reader and read this simply complex book in one sitting. Highly recommended.

Friday, April 27, 2007

I'll get to my saga in Connecticut later.

But now, I want to write about the Democratic debate last night and poor Dennis Kucinich. Basically, I like the little guy though he'll never be the Democratic candidate much less president. "Long shot" is more than an understatement.

At one point last night, Mike Gravel of Alaska stated that he is the "senior statesman" on the panel and that he was starting to feel like a "potted plant" because of all the time the "top tier" participants seemed to be getting, and it did seem like Hillary, Obama, and Edwards got more questions than the others, except maybe Biden. I kind of liked Mike Gravel too -- clearly not a polished up and memorized-answer type of debater, which in my opinion is a good thing. He, too, doesn't have a winter's chance in hell of being the candidate, but he still did well.

What kills me about Hilary, who I happen to like, is her use of the rhetoric that "now they have to run with what we've given them" in regards to Iraq. This is a common train of thought in the war debate, and I think it's wrongheaded and insulting to the Iraqis. It implies that Iraq is up shit creek without a paddle because they won't "step up to the plate", as if the invasion and occupation and ongoing sectarian civil war have left a situation that is easy to just reign in, if only they had the will! Newsflash: WE can't reign it in either. And WE are the reason the whole mess started in the first place.

More later.

Thursday, April 26, 2007

Top of the morning to ya!

Hello my blog! How I’ve missed you. I’m still in the ‘Cut, but I’ve managed to slip away for a few on my last day here to reach out to you. I don’t have much time, but I am so wholeheartedly looking forward to getting the heck back to Queens. Hopefully my apartment has not been broken into. I no longer have Meow Kitty to guard the place and shoot quills at intruders.

Some quick notes from the Big Meeting. I was called down to a meeting room yesterday for emergency access to my flash drive, and when I entered the room I saw only the Big Boss Lady and her assistant, who happened to be in a strait up melt-down screaming match which momentarily paralyzed me in the entrance. The assistant, who is my amiga, did not see me, but the Big Boss looked me strait in the eye. I turned my ass around and left without saying a word.

Later, the Big Boss came to the headquarters room and had me do some things that her assistant would have done, but I assume she went to her room (later she emerged, eyes red, and regathered). This was all kind of anxious and weird. The Big Boss said to me, simply, “She just had a meltdown. She’ll be okay.” And later my boss mentioned it to me, and said that the Big Boss was very appreciative of my efforts.

Of course later that night Big Boss sees me and her assistant in the restaurant grabbing a quick bite to eat and it was uncomfortable and awkward as the assistant says, “Here she comes” – which Big Boss likely heard – and Big Boss went to another table to ask about something. Then on her way out assistant caught her to tell her the info that of course the person at the other table could not have known. I’m sitting there in silence, Big Boss left, we finished eating. Now I probably look bad, as if I were sitting in there talking shit with her assistant but que sera sera. This place is wild, that’s only the half of it.

In other news, I am so insanely hot for like 90% of the men who work for this hotel. The one that I could not care less about however, LIGHTS UP WITH JOY whenever he sees me, asks how I’m doing, and calls me “buddy”. Look, I’m not your buddy. The only person who calls me “buddy” is my dad and when he does it it is fatherly and nice not fucking creepy, you goddamn weirdo.

I’ve also tried cruising the internet for some late night company in my fabulous hotel room but to no avail. Just not a lot of trade in this wasteland we call Connecticut. I have to get back to the madness. Holla!

Friday, April 20, 2007

Sanjaya, VA Tech, and Scientology

This weekend I will be mad busy with living my life and on Monday I head to the ‘Cut for a week of non-stop twelve to fifteen hour days of service to the Lord, and, well, the board of directors. So you may not hear from me until at least next Friday, but I implore you not to sink into a dark mood or anxious depression. I will be back soon, very soon.

In the meantime, there was so much more I wanted to say about my darling Sanjaya, but I think this article sums it up nicely. I will miss him dearly and now have no reason to watch the show, except for Melinda Doolittle who I like not only for her great singing talent but also her positive demeanor and pleasantness. Boring, but she can wail.

Also, there is probably no truth to the rumor that Britney Spears wants to team up with Sanjya [via American Midol] but I would love for this to come to fruition. I am one of the few people who believe that old lady Spears can have a comeback (“a return!”) after all the bad press, divorce from golddigger, parenting nightmares, head shaving, rehab, family fall-out and manager firing madness she’s going through, but even if she can’t at least Sanjaya can start out on that path that is so perfect for him: hot brown pop sensation.

Today is also a day of mourning for the VA Tech victims. I have this to say about that horrible incident: stop making this a gun-control issue (for or against) and stop pointing fingers at who is to blame at the university for their fuck-up of not locking down the campus. (OMG, Andrea Peyser, you are so tough! I totally wish you had been in charge!)

Additionally, news-media, stop presenting the killer’s “manifesto” and decrying his “lonely, tormented” life. As stated so perfectly at Republic of T, "Not all troubled persons are loners, and not all loners are troubled." His “manifesto” is the ramblings of someone who had nothing to say and who should have rethought his decision to major in English. His “plays” are childish, nonsensical tripe, not some profoundly introspective revelation into why he did it. His “isolation” is no different than the countless outcasts who are bullied and ridiculed but who never shoot up schools. He was a fluke, clearly mentally ill, and his desire to be noticed, even in death, was more important to him than living his life and figuring out how to navigate the cold cruel world. He was filled with anger and evil and that is all there is to say bout him and his videos, plays, “manifesto” etc. I feel sorry for his parents. The focus should be on the healing process of the families and students at Tech, whatever that is for each of them as individuals. Moving on is hard to do so lets keep the murderous assholes picture buried with him in his worm infested grave.

On a final note, what the hell kind of world is this when Scientology starts winning awards and being taken seriously as a healthcare provider? Tom Cruise and L. Ron Hubbard are nutjobs – let’s face facts – and the City’s “proclamation” honoring them is both ridiculous and insulting. Also, as if being a crazed cult started by a science-FICTION writer wasn’t enough, as a religion, the City and it’s officials should have NOTHING to do with this. Can you imagine if this were a faith healing center being praised like this? Or if it were some kind of Muslim organization being honored and awarded on the City’s time and dime? I wish the best for those with maladies due to 9/11, but Scientology has nothing to offer. Nothing.

That’s it. Holla!

Thursday, April 19, 2007

I died a little bit inside.

I'll miss you, Sanjaya!

I think crazy-ass Diana Ross says it best in this clip, when she says, "Sanjaya to me is love!"

Wednesday, April 18, 2007

I had my interview today.

I don't know how I feel about it. I'm not good at interviews. I stutter, I look around, I fidget, I say stupid things. I think I answered every question decently, although at one point I was asked what do I find "challenging" and I answered, and then she says she had a question about my answer because THAT'S EXACTLY HOW SHE IS. I went into damage control mode. I don't think that one thing will make me or break me, but I'm not confident about this one way or the other. And I'm not even sure how I'd feel about the job anyway.

Meanwhile work is crazy, the next two weeks are going to kill me, and I'm hindered by people constantly sucking the life out of me. This morning this woman asked me why I "let" the elevator close on them the other day. I had no idea what she was talking about, as I probably had my headphones on when she and whoever was with her were hollering for someone to hold the elevator like a fool. Why must people piss me off before I even get to my desk.

Watching American Idol now. Crossing fingers for Sanjaya, who may be voted off (he's in the bottom three). We'll see what happens. Then I'm going to bed at 10:00 sharp. Mama's tired.

Monday, April 16, 2007

Justified and Ancient

How graceful your movements
How bitter your scorn
I've been a teenager since before you were born.

There's a rare funny email forward I got recently, adapted from Dave Barry's "25 Things I Have Learned in 50 Years". One of them is, "There comes a time when you should stop expecting people to make a big deal about your birthday. That time is age 11." Truer words were never spoken.

But I implore you to care, because today, which is also Emancipation Day and the Day of Cosmic Comedy, I turned thirty-one years old. Thirty-one! I am no longer 30, I am now in my 30's. I am well over 600 in gay years.

I have been obsessed with the Real Age test for a while, checking in with it frequently, because I am clearly trying to see how HIGH I can get my "real age". As we were in route to some godforsaken place to ride the race cars and dance on fire on Saturday night, the cab passed a huge sign that read HEALTH IS WEALTH.

S.D. pointed this out, and I said, "It's very true. If you have your health, you have everything." So the reason I am empoverished is because I smoke a pack a day, drink heavily, don't wear my seatbelt, eat whatever the fuck I want and throw back a doll or two every now and then. On the one hand, I firmly believe that the better care you take of yourself, the better your life will be as you age. On the other hand, I firmly believe that life is a banquet and there are fools starving. In the immortal words of one Ms. Lindsay Lohan, "I just wanna dance and have a good time." As I galavanted around and mingled with the boys, I could only lament the fact that I was born to blossom, but bloomed to perish. I ain't a spring chicken. I can't get down like I used to but lord knows I try. I have a hundred years of experience for every line in my face, every hack in my lungs, every ache in my shoulders and neck, for every hideous scar and blemish, and every old man habit I've developed. The choice was mine and mine completely. I don't regret a thing but I regret it all.

As a gay man I am well of my obsession with youth, and I know how wrong that is. And as mentally ill person, I am well aware of my obsession with death and dying. Most people think of their birthdays as their personal holiday, but I think of birthdays as reminders of mortality. I'm consumed with these thoughts.

All of this is wholly insignificant in light of everything going on in the world, not the least of which is the Virginia Tech shootings. I whine about getting old; meanwhile, a real tragedy is unfolding and my heart breaks for those involved.

Saturday, April 14, 2007


More for the song than the video,

Friday, April 13, 2007

Office Mail

As I have said numerous times, I work for a large religious organization that I affectionately call The World Church of Assimilation. Given the nature of this place, sometimes the intersection of the popular culture with the offices of a mainstream Protestant religious group in New York City can get pretty funny. For example, a while back I somehow got on some mailing list by having Columbia House CD’s delivered here, and was getting frequent solicitations for me to subscribe to Playboy in my inbox, with unobstructed images of playmates. This is funny on a number of levels, including the fact that all of my co-workers could see these mailings just sitting there, this is a church, and I am a flaming homosexual who wouldn’t begin to know what to do with Playboy.

Anyway, my boss – who is in her late 50’s – has been getting Complex magazine – a “Marc Ecko Production” for a while now. When I sort through the mail I put them in her little “catalogs and magazines” folder and throw it in the inbox, as I don’t really care why she’s receiving a magazine that routinely has a woman in a bikini on its cover and fascinating articles on such topics as “Addicted to sneakers?” and “Kanye’s Beatdowns are Back!” My guess is, of course, that this is similar to the reasons I get Playboy solicitations – being sold out to a mailing list. (The woman receives an insane amount of catalogs and magazines.)

Today she came out of her office, handed me the magazine, and said, “Do you have any interest in this?” I said, “Sure, I’ll read it,” but it was all I could do to keep from laughing because of the half-naked woman on the cover. She tried to explain why she has it, and I think she’s realized after the first few issues came that it’s not some fluke and she actually has a subscription to this men’s softcore magazine.

I find this endlessly funny. However, I have to say the “Fifth Anniversary Sneaker Special” feature is pretty absorbing.

Thursday, April 12, 2007

If you do not take the vow, you can eat the sacred cow/you'll get Karma anyhow, Hare Hare Hare...

Sanjaya Malakar was once a Hare Krishna, which is not so "shameful" as the link makes it out to be. It puts him in the good company of Boy George who no doubt still chants the Hare Rama Rama Rama. The article also comments on his past state of poverty and his life as a child of divorce. Aww, my sweet Sanjaya, I hug you from afar.

I had a bad experience with the Hare Krishnas, who keep one little lock of hair on their heads so God can grab it and jerk them up to heaven. When I was in college I discovered that they give you books, then ask for a donation, and then take the books back when you decline. On that day circa 1995 I was particularly depressed, for some reason or other (long before I learned that life really sucks), and at being given the book I found my faith in humanity restored, only to be further shattered by the fact that it was not really a gift.

Dance on Fire

Uh oh...keep wrappin' it before you're tappin' it fellas: the CDC says gonorrhea has become drug resistant.


Wednesday, April 11, 2007

Monday, or Paper

The young fall hard and fast
Like trees with rings exposed
They turn into loose leaf paper.

Uptown there are windows
Hung on rubber bands
That bounce to shake loose the dirt
And clear up foggy eyes.

I can see the park turned on its side
The roots growing right through.
People wander in, blindfolded.
They have crumbs in their beards
And barbwired waists.

Sometimes in the nuclear winter
Snow falls like cigar ashes
In April, when Christ hides in Easter eggs.
He came back for a minute you’ll recall
To spoil the surprise and kiss his mother
And tell Judas he understands,
Standing over the traitor’s fresh grave.

When the sun finally appears
And my feet are warm,
It is the summer again.
I let my face catch the ultraviolet
Like the palm of a hand
And my nose breathes sidewalk steam.
Cars roar by and the calendar pages
Covered in little numbered cages
Fall off their metal spiral.

My blood is dusty and blows
Away like smoke.
On Monday I will shrivel into paper.
I will take my coat and hat and ride the train
The wrong way from here.

Te besaré mucho

I think it's clear that my boy Sanjaya, working a puberty-ish mustache and beard, kicked ass last night, and he even impressed Jenny from the Block! He was a little off on the pronunciation for "Besame mucho" but that's no big deal; J. Lo is sometimes too. At any rate he did wonderfully and I think he could really end up winning the whole thing, thus throwing the universe into chaos. Also, he is such a cutie.

Yes, I am a fourteen year old girl.

Tuesday, April 10, 2007


There are a million different takes on the Don Imus/Rutgers Women's Basketball controversy, and I won't get into my brilliant and insightful thoughts on the matter here, but I will ask this question. How is this broke-down cracker making fun of anybody, especially their hair?

*This is my 800th post.

And the baby daddy is

Larry Birkhead, as I think most people expected, what with Howard K. Stern's refusal to supply DNA and general creepy-assness about the whole death and paternity situation.

Monday, April 09, 2007

He's an angel walking among us on the face of this earth...

I never really watched “American Idol,” and I couldn’t name any of the alumni from past seasons, except for Kelly Clarkson and, more recently, Oscar-winner Jennifer Hudson, both of whom I like. And this season I don’t know any of the contestants by name, except for the controversial! Sanjaya. Since there is nothing of importance happening in the entire world I’m gonna tell you about my darling Sanjaya. Both groups of people (“voting for him is ruining the integrity of the show!” and “Vote for the worst!”) have it all wrong.

The Vote For the Worst website holds the position that it is entertaining to see a “fish out of water” and making the producers squirm. Sanjaya is clearly out of his league, but holding on to a regular spot – indeed, not even being in the bottom three – has proven him to be anything but a fish out of water. In addition, many of the Vote for the Worst supporters hold that “American Idol” is about “manufacturing a pop star” and, well, this’ll show ‘em! First, in my opinion, the show is not the televised equivalent of the Spice Girls or NSYNC. The contestants who get through are the ones who really can sing (Sanjaya had something to get to Hollywood and onto the first round of the show) and, furthermore, most of the contestants year after year look a mess. When you give the option to the shows viewership, a sizeable number of which are pre-teen girls, they’re gonna vote for the cute one with the cool hair. (Of course they’re too young to realize that he has a little sugar in the tank, so to speak, but that didn’t stop George Michael in his hayday.)

There are some highly unattractive people competing with their voices alone to work with. So if the Vote for the Worst crowd is doing anything, it’s supporting the contestant that is the most in need of manufacturing. If Sanjaya wins (and full disclosure is I hope he totally does) then they’ll put his pretty ass in a recording studio, tweak his vocals and produce the hell out of a 12 song CD. I am not the first to realize that through the magic of industry, just anyone can be made into a pop singer. I think, as far as popular music goes these days outside of the legends, Sanjaya will be as good if not better than anyone. And the Vote for the Worst movement will have proved what…that a show that is loathed for “manufacturing” pop stars was really taught a lesson for having to do just that with a Sanjaya win? Whatever.

Now the people who are crying into their palms about Sanjaya’s success are eye-roll inducing. What could they possibly be angry about? This beloved show set itself up for this inevitable moment of a little Indian cutie with a mediocre singing voices taking the cake. Don’t hate, congratulate. Publicity stunts like going on hunger strikes and camping out on top of a car dealership are worse examples of pathetic clamoring for acknowledgement than Sanjaya accepting the mad love he's receiving from both fans and those who mock with the vote. (Incidentally the hunger-strike girl looks like she could stand to miss a few meals, and has ended her strike anyway, "due to medical reasons" which likely include "people have to eat to survive".)

Democracy is how we’ve wound up with Sanjaya. God bless America.

Anyway, here’s the thing about “American Idol” and people’s “shattered dreams”: it’s not so much about winning as it is about doing something with the publicity after the show. Sometimes the winners get big like Kelly, sometimes the non-winners get big like Jennifer Hudson and Clay Aiken’s gay ass. So while there are fans of the show crying about how Sanjaya is shattering the dreams of more worthy singers, those worthy singers still have had the opportunity of a lifetime to get on with their careers. Hell, there was even that gayish boy that quit the last season so he could do his own thang. I mean, nothing ever really came of that for him, but he understood the principle I’m working with here. I’d also like to point out that winning is Sanjaya’s dream too, even if he’s not the most talented on the show. This is what happens when, rather than letting the judges pick who moves on, you open the voting to the American public via cell phones and the internet. Upsets, baby. Sanjaya likely knows what’s going on with Vote For the Worst and Howard Stern, and he’s running with it. I, for one, can’t blame him.

Here is my houseguest holding a plastic Easter egg with a fetus in it

Hope everyone had pleasant surprises on their own egg hunts.

Saturday, April 07, 2007

Not Like That

Last night at Mr. Black I met this cute little Filipino guy who looked like he was about 14 years old but he assured me he was 25. Anyway, he was so overly intoxicated on whisky that by the end of the night I was escorting him to the coat check and the bathroom, where he promptly vomited. Thank God he got a stall, because that wouldn't have worked so well in a urinal. Anyway, he was sweet and cute enough, but just I just wasn't feeling it like that, though I did offer to bring him out here to the compound because I was a little concerned about him getting home that hammered. At any rate, I was ready to go before he could muster the will to stand up so I left his ass there. Unlike all the men that my heart has longed for in the past who have been given my number and have not called, this take-it-or-leave-it youngin' has called me no less than three times today. And text messaged as the cherry on top.

Yesterday when Lito was moving, the Verizon man came to set up my DSL connection. We exchanged knowing looks as he sweetly took care of the necessary procedures, because we had strait up had sex a few years ago. It was understood that we would not acknowledge this. He offered to help me move some furniture into the office, while I though to myself, let's just handle the business at hand and get you on your way. What would life be without these uncomfortable moments...? He so totally wants another piece though, I could just tell.

In other news, we are well into Spring and there have been snow flurries and freezing temperatures. What kind of world is this?

I have done absolutely nothing today and I'm fine with that.

Friday, April 06, 2007

Soul Mother

I'm waiting on S.D. to head out for a little wiling.


I get the alumni magazine from alma mater in the mail sometimes, and in the recent issue there are pictures from a soccer game illustrating shirtless people wearing Roman-style feathered helmets and painted in blue with gold letters on their chests that spell out S-P-A-R-T-A-N-S. And I think to myself this is not the university I attended for four years.

The nature of my university was medium-sized public arts and sciences school with no real fame outside its literary magazine. That is why I, as far as school goes, loved it. The foundational concerns of that university were things like “if and when the Philosophy Department will get a PhD program”, not “how many paying fuckers can we pack into a stadium on a Friday night for the soccer game.” The little article attached to the picture says something about the “fucking totally super-awesome school spirit” at UNCG,” which has either been fabricated or developed since I was there, because we didn’t have school spirit. Not in that sense at least. Not in the crazed-sports-fans sense! It didn’t want to be the Tarheels. Not that there’s anything wrong with being the Tarheels.

I have to admit I’m a little bitter about the much hyped and applauded stadium that was built since my last year there. I was on the student council, and we were so badass. Seriously, though, we did a lot of good for that school, even though, in large part, the Chancellor foiled our plans at every turn. There were two big things we did. We tried to get “sexual orientation” into the non-discrimination policy (failed) and we tried to prevent that stadium from being built (obviously failed).

In fairness to UNCG, it has grown over the years, even before I got there, and they have some really great buildings, better dorms, great facilities. That all takes money, of course, and money comes from a development/foundation department. A lot of “development” comes from “corporate partners”. I know from my years of work at a non-profit institution, and from the current culture of non-profitacy, that in order to get a lot of money and really soup yourself up, you have to have a Campaign for Your Brand. So UNCG, like the place I work now even, became a “Brand”. It’s funny that both my alma mater (soul-mother) and my religious employer whose humanitarian work is for souls, have sold their souls in a sense. Not that UNCG isn’t a great university (or that the WCA doesn’t do great work for that matter), but the whole “rake in the coins” and thereby change what your student body is is kind of irritating.

Anyway, that magazine has a little section for “Grad Tidings” with updates on alumni people have submitted. I’m tempted to submit something about myself along the lines of “found cure for rare cancer" or "is the featured sword-swallower in the Barnum and Bailey Circus".


Today is Good Friday, also known as Dark Friday, depending on who you're asking. It's "Good" because it's the day the Lord died to save our sins. It's "Dark", because, well, he was viciously tortured to death on our behalf. Discuss.

My former roommate and permanent cousin, Lito, was here for a short visit to move the remainder of his things and catch up with some of his friends. I have space like a fucking frontier up in this piece. If I had a party on April 21, to celebrate Easter, Spring, the sign of Aries, and my birthday, would anyone come? Discuss. Also, how does one make a party a party? I wouldn't want some lame ass sit around type shit. I want people to be get a little rowdy as an apartment building will allow of course. Seriously, I want to have a little get together, about ten or fifteen people, but I generally find those boring. So how to keep it lively is the question. I guess it's all in the playlist.

And that's all that I have to give for the moment. The doorbell is ringing.

Ralph Peters and His Crazy Ass

In the Post the other day, columnist Ralph Peters went off the deep end calling the British sailors who were hostages of Iran "shameful" and basically pussies for not fighting and surrendering to Iran. Of course he does not consider ANYTHING they obviously did, like the fact that they were massively outnumbered and a fight would not only have been deadly for them but also strategically bad for Britain (and America for that matter). Furthermore, their faux admission to straying into Iranian waters, which Peters sees as wimpy, is, in my eyes, an easy trade off to keep from being tortured, given that the world would know they were obviously being coerced to say such things. So, Ralph Peters, while I appreciate your years of military service in the past, I implore you to STFU. As Tony Blair said of the sailors, "they were a credit to [Britain]".

Wednesday, April 04, 2007

What if Anna Nicole Smith had been a smurf?

My new favorite thing: The Smurfette Show, which perfectly captures every aspect of the Anna Nicole Show, down to the lawyer and Bobby Trendy.

Free At Last

The 15 British sailors taken hostage by Iran and clearly coerced into admitting guilt for being in Iranian territorial waters have been released by Iran, which is a relief.

In the midst of Nancy Pelosi's controversial visit to Syria, the Syrian government is claiming a role in their release, which is a gift for Muhommad's birthday/Easter. I think Nancy should say it was all her doing to piss off the White House further.

Who Wore It Better?

And by "who wore it better" I mean "who looks older"?

[via Madonnalicious]

I used to say I want my ashes scattered on a beach somewhere, but now I think I want them to be snorted.

You've probably read that Keith Richards said he snorted his father's ashes mixed with cocaine.

The funniest thing from the interview, is Keith's recollection of the time someone put strychnine in his heroin. He says he'd never do dope again because "it's fucking painful, man". I imagine this has little to do with the strychnine incident.

Or maybe this is my favorite:

"I've never had my hair cut by anybody, I do it all myself. I've never let anybody touch it. My mum used to give me two shillings and sixpence every two weeks to get my hair cut, and I would just ignore the barber and chop it off myself and keep the fucking money. Spent it on cigs. And a bit of booze, probably, and I'd try and impress a bird here or there, too."

The dude was smoking and boozing when his mom was still paying for his haircuts. Sweet.

Also, I love that there's an ad for "Cigarest" on the webpage.

Don't Cry for Me Madge Ritchie

A huge advert for Madonna's "M by Madonna" clothing line for H&M was vandalized in London in an apparant attempt to make her appear to cry. It's rumored to be linked to anti-fur protesters, but IMHO it's more likey to be agenda-less.

Tuesday, April 03, 2007

You Don't Want No Drama

Alanis Morissette's cover of "My Humps" is my new favorite thing:

But it pales in comparison to Trixie and the gang's version.